Ten Seconds
by SkyeFurieX
Summary: S3 spoilers. John Watson wonders at the cruelty of the universe. Just as he's been granted his miracle, Sherlock is going to be ripped away from him. Again. And he still hasn't had a chance to admit to him how much he loves him. Alternate ending to The Empty Hearse.


Disclaimer: I own nothing. Seriously.

So, I just saw Sherlock, and... ERMAGHERD! THE FEELS, THE SHIPS, THE ANGST, THE TRAIN CAR SCENE - !

Anyway. My brain was buzzing, and I had to write this. This is my version of how the train car scene should have happened. Enjoy!

* * *

_01:43_

The little red numbers are flashing innocently up at him. Seconds ticking away. Innocently, decisively, steadily counting down. Taking away the last moments of his life, one by one. It hits John like another Afgan bullet to the gut.

This is it.

End of the line. Captain John Watson takes in a deep breath, sucking in the cold air desperately, trying to fight the phantom ache in his leg. To his horror tears prick at the corners of his eyes, blurring the edges of his vision. He can only stare down at Sherlock, _Sherlock_, who is alive and breathing, very much not-dead, who is on his knees now, hands hovering over the bomb.

He is angry, John notices, he is scared, he is _crying_, and John has never seen Sherlock cry before. Seconds ago he was listening to a raw, painful apology, a desperate beg for forgiveness. He swallows a lump stuck at the back of his throat.

Sherlock Holmes.

He can't tear his eyes from him, decked out in that bloody coat with that damned collar – _you, with your cheekbones and turning your collar up to make you look cool – _inky black curls, coltish legs springing him back up to his towering height. Watching him pace around the train car feverishly, muttering, long pale fingers pressing to his temples, John drinks him in, thinking of that one miracle he had begged for, standing at a graveside.

"_Don't... be... dead. Will you do that? Just stop this." _

It isn't _fair_. The cry, childish and _selfish_, claws out of his chest, his broken heart, scarred and now damned without a chance to heal. His miracle has been granted and now it's being dragged away from him again. His detective is going to be taken away from him, after swanning back into his life with a mascara moustache and a crappy french accent.

A part of John; buried, battle-weary and searing with protectiveness knows that he should be grieving for the lives this blast will surely take. The devastation that they cannot stop.

"_Just the two of us against the rest of the world."_

But they can't save the day. Not this time. And John, oh John will believe in that beautiful brain for forever and a day, long after he last draws breath, but they have nothing left. It's over and done. And he can't find it in him to weep for any but the magnificent man in front of him.

Sherlock finally stills. He turns back from the door, the open door – he'd told John to run, to get out and return to Mary – Mary who was good and beautiful and everything he might have wanted in another life, if he'd been able to move past the maelstrom that was Sherlock Holmes...

Ha. Him, leave Sherlock? You must be fucking joking.

John watches Sherlock slide down to his knees. The detective swallows and looks up at him. His heart aches at the gut-wrenching despair in those silver-blue eyes. Those icy green glaciers that glow with a storm of knowledge and brilliant deductions; now they are bright, surrounded by tears and a shock, a fear that yanks at John's frayed heartstrings.

"John," Sherlock rasps. "I don't know what to _do_." His eyes widen, burning with fear and grief and helplessness. "I can't... I can't..."

No. He can't. He's met his match. "I know. It's okay." Sherlock growls in defiance. Well. If they're going to die, he might as well ease the hurt a little.

John closes his eyes briefly. "You... were the best, and wisest man, that I have ever known." He pauses, rubbing at his chest. Sherlock is staring up at him. Tears spill down those porcelain, sculpted cheeks. "Of course I forgive you," he gasps out.

And he knows, he knows that he's been angry, he's been an arsehole, decking Sherlock while he tried to explain. But, in his defence, he'd forgotten just what a smart-arse the bastard was at times, and he'd been shocked and hopeful and hurt and didn't know what to do. So punching him seemed like a good idea at the time.

"_I, er, always hear punch me in the face when you're talking, but it's usually subtext."_

But... hey. Despite the punches and the swearing, and the getting rid of the moustache (which he _had_ hated, he didn't need bloody Sherlock Holmes to tell him how rubbish it made him look, thank you very much) his old heart had always had space for Sherlock. The lanky detective had wormed his way in with clever words and amazing thinking and refused to leave once he'd not-died.

Of course, the fact that he was bloody gorgeous hadn't helped matters.

So of course he'd forgiven him. John didn't really understand why Sherlock doubted he would. Sherlock Holmes had become his world, his sun; everyone had seen it. The flashing red numbers sent a jolt through his heart.

And here he was, given one last chance to breathe before being dragged down to drown.

Sherlock's eyes bore into him.

"John. You... you mean it?"

He lowers his gaze a little, grabbing one of the rails. Pain lances up his leg. He nods jerkily. Sherlock blinks, and a stray tear dribbles down, catching the corner of his down-turned lips. The detective presses his lips together. "When I was away," he goes on huskily, "I... I missed you."

John lets out a breath. Oh, Sherlock.

The scars marring his heart seem to open up at the admission. Finally, here before him is the one person he has bared his soul to, who knows him better than he knows himself.

"It was..." he tries to find his words. Tried to describe the raw emptiness, the feeling of having a sun ripped from your solar system. "It... it was like I couldn't breathe."

Sherlock sobs.

"John."

He can't fight the tears now either. John feels one slide down his cheek. Makes no move to stop it. What's the point.

"There was no one to – you weren't there," Sherlock goes on, and it sounds like he's talking about things that he's bottled up for months. "I had to cram everything in my mind palace because – because you weren't there!"

"I had to leave Baker Street," John finds himself saying. "Whenever I was there I would think you were there and – I couldn't let myself think about you. Not for a second because –"

"_It hurt too much_," they finish together.

Sherlock is staring up at him with those Bambi eyes, wide and soulful and glistening with tears, as if he has figured out how to build a TARDIS or something. John swallows. He doesn't have to explain the pain in his heart. Sherlock knows. Sherlock always knows.

The detective glances down and those eyes sharpen with fear. His face whitens. Sherlock's eyes snap back to his face. "Ten seconds," he stutters in that silken baritone.

John feels his heart burst.

Ten seconds. Oh, God.

"_In your very last seconds, what would you say?"_

"_Please, God, let me live?"_

Well, he isn't using his imagination now. John lets his eyes roam Sherlock's face, and finds the detective mirroring his movements. This is it.

Something snaps within him, and a half-choked sob breaks free.

"Sherlock," he manages brokenly, and then the detective is leaping up from his knees. John falls into him, and they collide. A tangle of limbs and that spicy cologne that Sherlock always wears. He grasps at the thick wool coat, feeling Sherlock's arms wind around him distraughtly. He buries his head into the warm chest, feeling both the scratch of his coat and the smooth warmth of his collarbone under his cheek. John feels his tears sliding down his nose. Above and all around, his world trembles; Sherlock is crying.

The detective hides his face in John's neck. He hears a jumble of words muttered clumsily into the hair at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes, and waits for death with his detective.

They wait.

...

Any second now.

...

John frowns into Sherlock's chest. He waits a few more seconds. Nothing.

Huh.

Well, that was anti-climactic.

He lifts his head a bit. "Sherlock," John says. They are still alive, for some reason, and he'd like to know why.

The detective pulls his nose out of his hair, eyes calculating, tears drying on his face. His gaze is sharp.

"I know."

Craning his neck, he peers down at the bomb. The numbers are flashing, upside down, but he can read them. He stares.

You've got to be fucking joking.

_00:01_

"It jammed," he states flatly. Sherlock twists, not letting go of John, to see for himself. The digits are flickering. Stuck.

The detective turns and peers down at him again. "It jammed," Sherlock agrees in a stunned voice. They stare at each other, before simultaneously breaking into massive grins.

"It jammed!"

Suddenly Sherlock is picking him up and spinning him around. Which isn't that difficult a task, considering how little he's managed to eat these past two years. John clutches at his shoulders and laughs wildly – they're still alive, Sherlock is _alive_ – and grins up at his madman once Sherlock sets him down again.

John is spinning, high on the knowledge that this isn't the end, there's time to do things, to be with Sherlock, to go on adventures -

Something in those sparkling eyes softens; his untameable detective with his harsh edges and snappish deductions seems unsure. So John decides to take the leap for him.

Before he even realises what he's doing, he has the edges of that dratted coat collar in his hands and pulling Sherlock's head down for a kiss. It's warm. And soft. And it's made clear rather quickly that Sherlock has no idea what he's doing. He flutters and his hands wring helplessly in the air, before John decides to give him a hand.

He guides those long fingers to his waist, before reaching up to dig his own into those midnight curls. Sherlock groans into his mouth, and he swiftly takes the opportunity to tangle their tongues and nibble on that delectable lower lip. He isn't called Three Continents Watson for nothing.

It's positively glorious. John has to blink a few times when they come up for air, stepping back a little. The lanky detective follows, hands hot and splayed over his hips, eyes wild and wanting, head dipping low.

"Oops," John hides a smile, taking in Sherlock's dazed state. His stomach seems to be doing back-flips.

"Oops," agrees Sherlock in that throaty rumble which sends shivers down his spine, and dives in eagerly for another kiss. He tugs John closer, and it's perfect and more than he could ever have hoped for. He thumbs over those smooth cheekbones, the crow's feet crinkling in the corners of Sherlock's eyes, and notices a CCTV camera sitting innocently in the corner.

John recaptures his detective's lips and, behind his head, flips the bird at the camera. Sherlock pulls away, confused. "What are you doing?"

He shrugs, unrepentant. "Telling Mycroft to fuck off."

It's worth it to see Sherlock beam brighter than the sun. He glances unconcernedly at the camera, before ducking down to peck his nose shyly.

"Come on," he says, pulling out his phone. "We'll want to hand this over to the experts." He gestures to the jammed bomb, crouching to pick up his scarf.

"So you _did_ phone the police," John teases as Sherlock loops the navy material around his neck and knots it deftly.

"Of course." He jumps nimbly out of the car, and sweeps around to hold out a hand for John. Sherlock winks. "Coming?"

John definitely does not blush. He's an army doctor, a captain, not a flipping damsel in distress, dammit.

But, he does slip his hand into the detective's as he jumps out of the damned train car. Sherlock seems to strut proudly as they walk back up the dark, chilly tunnel. He hides a smile as several policemen hurry past them, bomb-disposal team in tow. John presses into Sherlock's side unashamedly, hiding their joined hands.

"So," Sherlock murmurs as they walk. "What now?" John runs a thumb over his knuckles.

"Now," he chews on his lip, "now, we have to watch Mrs Hudson screech over how she was right all along and also watch Lestrade win at least twenty quid from the rest of Scotland Yard."

Sherlock snorts. "Please," he scoffs. "Donavan bet fifty pounds at least."

John shakes his head.

"What am I going to do with you?" he mutters fondly, and feels the detective's eyes on him.

"You meant it?" Sherlock's voice is soft and vulnerable. "You do forgive me?"

He smiles tiredly.

"Yeah. I don't... I couldn't not, really. I don't have it in me to not forgive you, Sherlock." And it looks like Sherlock's about to cry again. Oh dear.

"Um..." yep, his voice is all raspy, and he's looking ahead decisively as they walk. "D'you fancy fish and chips?"

John doesn't fight the smile that spreads across his lips; he welcomes it. "I'd love to."

The hand laced with his squeezes tightly.

"And, er," Sherlock's mumbling now, ducking his head. "If you, if you want to come back, to Baker Street, I mean, that'd be –"

"I'll move my stuff in tomorrow," John agrees breezily. The detective stares at him.

"But – Mary?"

He chokes back a laugh at the floundered tone. "No, she's just a friend. Been supporting me, you know."

"But the engagement ring," Sherlock insisted with a frown. John snickered.

"Yeah, but not to me. Mary's stuck around as a favour to her partner, who's currently fighting drinking problems."

"Who –" Sherlock, for lack of a better word, ogles John. "_Harry?_"

He nods. "Yep. Harry tried to help, but we started arguing and fighting all the time, so Mary eventually butt in and said she'd do the whole 'checking up on me' thing."

Maybe in another life, they could have worked. But he's seen Harry around Mary, and they are utter magic together. John hasn't seen a woman make his older sister smile like that in a long time. No way would he deny her happiness now.

Sherlock seems flummoxed. He chuckles and tugs the detective along. "C'mon, Sherlock, I'm hungry."

This damned terrorist can wait. It seems he's moving in with a boyfriend he's been in love with for over two years.

Sherlock lengthens his stride, and they eventually leave the tunnel. It's only once they are out in the frosty autumn air, breathing in the sight of _London_, their battleground, their home, that John stops and breathes. He hangs on tightly to his detective's warm hand.

"Sherlock?"

The detective turns to look down at him, silvery eyes suffused with warmth. "Yes, John?"

"What you said, back there in the train car. In those last ten seconds." Sherlock freezes, but melts at the calm, tranquil smile John gives him.

"...yes?"

"I know. And I love you too."

* * *

Aww. So, yeah. This is my first actual venture into writing Sherlock fanfic. Feels pretty good. I love writing as John. I think I might try out some more oneshots, if I have the time.

Anyway, thoughts? Please review, and tell me what you think!

SkyeFurieX


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